


lights up and they know who you are

by lacecat



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bodyguard Romance, M/M, Multi, Rock Stars, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:41:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22219471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacecat/pseuds/lacecat
Summary: Doing a favor for Max, Michael becomes a reluctant bodyguard to the rising rock star Alex Manes, who is notorious for escaping his security detail.“Must be pretty desperate,” Michael says, “If you flew out here just to recruit me to play babysitter for this guy.”“Yeah, well,” Max says, noncommittal, and this should’ve been his first warning, “He’s gone through six of my people in the past month.”Michael whistles. “Oh, you’re right,” he says, “That’stotallyin control.”
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 120
Kudos: 205





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ I've been sitting on this because I had the idea a while back and I'm just finally going with it!! 
> 
> think a very, very loose AU of the bodyguard ft. slowwwww burnnnnnn. title from lights up (shhhhhh don't @ me) 
> 
> I'm villanellve on tumblr!

Michael answers the door thinking it’s his food delivery person, only to be greeted by the sight of Max there instead. They blink at each other across the doorway of his apartment for a good three seconds. 

That reminds Michael of every other time his brother has shown up out of nowhere, andit usually means that Michael is about to endure a lecture. Like, _Isobel’s birthday is coming up and we need to buy her an expensive present, Michael_ , or the classic, _I’m worried you’re not doing something with your life, Michael_ or even the implied _Why can’t you move to the suburbs and cry yourself to sleep at night like me, Michael?_ He can’t even think of what he might’ve done to deserve this recent trip, Michael thinks to himself.

This look, though, on second glance, means that he wants something that Michael _definitely_ is not interested in hearing about.

“Hey,” Max says. “It’s been a while - “ 

“Nope,” Michael says, moving to close the door. 

“Michael,” Max returns, infuriatingly calm and using his foot to stop the door from closing entirely, “Hear me out here, it’s a security job that I need you - “  
  
  
“Stop it!” They struggle with the door for a moment, just like kids, before Michael lets go and makes a disgusted sound. He throws his hands up. “You have until the pizza arrives, then I will literally throw you out of here.” 

“You’d be doing me a really big favor,” Max adds earnestly, “I need someone I can trust for this one. And you have the experience, even if it’s been a while - “ 

“Why aren’t you calling up someone from the CIA or whatever, if you’re so desperate?” 

“You’re telling me you couldn’t use the money?”  
  
  
“Is this is you trying to get a favor from me?” 

  
“Michael, _please_.”  
  


He should’ve closed the door quicker. Michael scrubs a hand over his face. “Who is it?”  
  
  
“Will you take the job?”  
  


“You gonna make me sign an NDA just to tell me?” Michael throws back. “Who?” 

Max eyes him, before he says, “Alex Manes.” 

Michael steps back from the door, but after another moment, he leaves it open so Max can trail in after him. If he’s about to get pulled into this, you bet he’s going to at least have a drink.  
“Never heard of him.”

“Come on,” Max says, closing the door behind him as Michael crosses the room to open the fridge and fish out a beer. “He headlined Coachella this year - won three Grammys, uh, starred in that movie about the shipwreck - “ 

“Are you his security detail or his publicist?” Michael offers a bottle to Max, who shakes his head. “So why does he need a personal bodyguard beyond whatever setup you’ve got going for him already?” 

Max crosses his arms. “My boss is going to kill me if I can’t find someone to stick with him." 

Michael pops open his beer. “I thought Isobel was your boss?”  
  
  
“She still is,” Max says. “I made the mistake of introducing them, and she likes him. She’d rather fire me than lose him as a client.”

“So you just want to watch Iz fire me too?” 

“She thinks you’d be good for the job,” Max tells him. “Manes has some unique… challenges to watch out for.” 

“Hmph.” 

  
“We need someone unorthodox,” Max continues. “Someone who will stop Manes from getting into trouble, and who I know isn’t going to sell photos of him to TMZ. “

“Well, you do know about my money problems,” Michael says, but relents when Max gives him another one of his looks. “What’s wrong with him?”  
  
“Nothing, not really,” Max says. “He’s just a little difficult.” 

“You’re _really_ going to have to clarify that if Isobel is making you fly out and see me in person to tell me about this.” 

“He’s good at escaping his security detail,” Max admits. “Gave me the slip in Rome last week, and no one knew where he was for thirty hours. That with some of these threats lately - “ 

“Threats?”  
  


“He’s gotten really famous the last few months, since the movie, and he hasn’t figured out that he’s going to have to make some changes to his life to continue,” Max says. “There have been a number of break-ins, hacking attempts, weird letters - all these warning signs.” 

“More than your average celebrity?”  
  
  
Max gives a shrug. “Manes needs the extra security,” he says. “He agreed to having one person following him over a whole group at all times, as long I can vouch for them.” 

“And that’s where I come in?” 

"I thought that with your - _experience,_ as well as your, uh background - you could -you might be able to - “ Max looks like he’s floundering for the right words. 

Michael takes a tiny bit of cruel pleasure in drawing it out, before he supplies, “My delinquent past might help me rein him in?”  
  


“Yeah,” Max says, looking relieved and troubled all at once. “I mean, not that he’s a _delinquent_ \- and it’s not like you have a violent record or something - “

“Sure,” Michael finishes for him. “I’m flattered.”  
  
  
“He’s kind of, I don’t know, troubled.“ Max stops himself, looks sheepish. “That’s not the right word - “

“I can read in between the lines,” Michael drawls. Fuck it, he could use the money, after all. He’s had an eye on doing some improvements to his truck, and it’s not like he has anything waiting for him around here . How hard could it be? 

“So I have to keep the rock star from giving you the slip,” Michael says, “Basically, a glorified babysitter for an adult man. That right?” 

Max’s relief is palpable at Michael’s seeming acceptance of his offer. “No babysitter gets paid this much,” he says, “You’d join us on the road, immediately, for the rest of the tour. Three-month contract, standard package with a signing bonus that Isobel’ll clear for you. We’ll see how it goes after that.” 

  
“Do I get a gun?”  
  
  
“You get a taser, only to be used in the direst emergencies.”  
  
  
“Must be pretty desperate,” Michael says, “If you flew out here just to come recruit me.”

“Yeah, well,” Max says, noncommittal, and this should’ve been his first warning, “He’s gone through six of my people in the past month.”

Michael whistles. “Oh, you’re right,” he says, “That’s _totally_ in control.”  


\---

Once upon a time, Isobel had convinced Max to quit his job as a county deputy, to join her in catering to the lives of the rich and famous in Hollywood. She had tried to get Michael then, too, only he knew that not too many of her clients would be willing to work with her if they knew about him - the high school drop out, the sometimes bouncer, sometimes mechanic, the convicted thief.

The three of them were in the foster system together until they were sixteen. During those awful years when they were separated - Michael sent to California, Max and Isobel somewhere in Arizona - he had earned the qualification of public menace, until they found each other again as adults, and he finally had his family again to keep him out of jail. 

In that time apart, both of his siblings were able to get onto paths of something approaching normal. So Michael started to pick up jobs that weren’t in chop shops, started working out with Max on the weekends, listen to Isobel juggle the public schedules of half a dozen C-listers. Then she had made it big, and had gotten Max to join her, and so now she’s managed to get Michael in on the family

They get to Las Vegas by a private plane. Michael has never liked flying, and he spends the entire flight clutching onto his glass of ice water while Max debriefs him about Manes’s schedule. Guess he’s going to have to get used to that too. 

“When does he sleep?” Michael wonders out loud, while they’re waiting to be taxied into the private airport.

“He works hard,” Max says. “And that’s just the overview, you’ll see.” 

There’s a list of names in the file that he’s given him, which Michael scans now. Must be a black-list of sorts. “Flint Manes, Charles Manes - this all his family here?”  
  
  
“Two of the five brothers total,” Max says. “His dad died when he was a teenager, and his mom’s been out of the picture. Manes only wants to talk to them on his terms, so you just keep an eye out for them in particular, should it come up.”  
  
  
“Family drama,” Michael mutters under his breath, then louder, “I can do family drama.”

Isobel is waiting for them on the tarmac. She’s in tall heels, with her blond hair slicked back into a low bun, and she’s wearing a very expensive looking dress that makes Michael think that the security management life must be going very well for her.

Michael gets a hug and a kiss on his cheek, while Max gets a patented Isobel Evans Glare. “You’re an hour late,” Isobel says, “And now I have to leave you here to go straight to my meeting.” 

“Contract negotiations?”

  
  
“The second bane of my existence.” 

“I can’t control the plane, Iz!”

“You owe me dinner tomorrow night when you’re off,” Isobel tells Michael in turn. “I’m signing your paperwork today, so I know you’ll be able to afford it.”

  
  
“Name the place,” Michael says with a lopsided grin. “It’s good to see you, Iz.” 

“Is everyone at the venue already?” Max asks, and Isobel checks her phone.

“Hopefully,” she says, “They found him back at the first hotel last night. He should be at rehearsal by now for the concert tomorrow.”

“We’ll go there,” Max says. “Thanks, Iz.”

Isobel gives a crisp nod, already typing back at her phone. Michael gets another quick kiss on the cheek, while Max receives another hit before her departure.

\---

“Just try to behave,” Max tells him as they’re walking backstage. Michael isadjusting the radio that Max had given him in his ear as he says, “Don’t try to macho him or something.” 

  
  
“Oh, well, that was my sole strategy here,” Michael says sarcastically. They turn the corner and enter the concert hall.

There is a group of dancer-type people on the stage in front of them. Michael takes note of the burly-looking men at the exits, the ones who had been looking up and down the street when they had pulled up out front, now milling about all the other crew members and tech people, evidently preparing for tonight’s crowd already. 

“Alex,” Max calls as they approach, and a dark-haired head from the middle of the dancer group turns toward him. 

The two of them stop just in front of the stage, as the people go to either side. They leave behind the single man looking at them directly, his eyebrows raising up briefly as he takes them in from above. 

“This is your new personal security officer, Michael Guerin,” Max says, gesturing to him. “He’ll be getting to know your schedule today.” 

Manes’s eyes flick up and down, gauging him. “So you’re my new babysitter.” He sounds surprisingly mild about it. 

“That’s what I said,” Michael says, as Manes comes down from the stage to stand in front of them. “Good to know we’re on the same page.” 

Alex Manes is roughly his height, with messy hair and sharp eyes. He’s got an ornate septum piercing that catches the light as he tilts his head right then, and considering he’s wearing a shirt that’s more mesh than actual fabric, possesses a surprising amount of hard authority in his stance that Michael would expect more from a high-ranking military officer. 

A kind of self-assuredness that comes from someone who looks you dead in the eye when he first meets you and says, “So are you racist, or are you homophobic?”  


Michael says, “I’d like to think… neither?” 

  
  
“The last one said that,” Manes says flatly. “He didn’t last a week.” 

“I did hear you have a high turnover rate,” Michael says, ignoring Max’s elbow pressing against his side, “Which did he answer?” 

“I have high expectations for those around me,” Manes says, those dark eyes narrowing. “And I’m not about to slow down what I do, either. Where’d you find this one, Max?” 

“He’s my brother,” Max answers, and Michael watches as Manes’s eyes go between him and Max for a second.

“I don’t see the resemblance.” He speaks his mind, which Michael can admire. 

“We were adopted,” Michael answers before Max can say anything. He smirks. “He gets jealous of my hair.” 

Manes snorts. “So you’re making your brother be my parole officer?” 

“This is for your own protection,” Max says evenly. “Michael will be present where you go, but he’s not going to report back to anyone else.”

“I don’t like being followed,” Manes says. 

“You kinda picked a wrong profession for that,” Michael says before he can help himself, and Manes’ eyes snap back to him. “Just think of me as a friend of a friend, with a taser in case someone tries to cut off your hair in public.” 

He might have just lost this job. But before Max can decide to just find someone else, Manes nods once. “I have to rehearse.”

Max doesn’t seem offended, though. “I’m going to meet with the venue’s security head,” he says. “Michael and I will come back - “

  
“If he’s going to stick around any,” Manes interrupts, “He should stay here, dive right in.”

  
  
Max’s head turns to look over to him, questioning, but Michael just gives a slight shrug, keeps on looking at Manes right in the eye. 

“Fine by me,” he says. Manes gives him a tight nod, before turning back to his crew. 

\---

He watches them practice. There’s muted music with which Manes and his choreographer play and restart, over and over again, directing the people on stage. Occasionally, Manes will position himself at a microphone, sing some part of a song before he makes a new adjustment. He gestures with grand motions that make the light catch off the rings on his fingers, the silver rivets on the front of his boots. Behind them, people are wheeling out stage designs, checking lights, instruments. Everyone seems brisk and focused, and he can tell that this is a tightly run operation. 

Manes is actually professional, even kind to his crew, to the dancers and the backing band and the constant flood of assistants - far better than some of the other celebrities Michael’s had to babysit for Max back then. He stays down low on the stage, watching all these interactions, and he takes note of the people who are going by. 

He also might actually be talented, too, Michael thinks, listening to Manes sing for a bit. 

The rehearsal ends late. Manes spares Michael a single glance as he hops down from the stage, his assistant joining him. She looks at Michael, but then holds out a phone to Manes and addresses only him. 

“You have a call,” she says, “It’s Flint.” 

Some dark expression comes over his face. Manes says, “Give me the phone.” 

He stalks away from the assistant and Michael, though not too far away. Michael watches the tense line of his shoulders as he says something into the phone, hanging up in a matter of minutes. He passes the phone back to the assistant, and continues to walk away without another word.  Aloof rock star, he can go with it. 

Manes doesn’t tell Michael where he’s going, but it’s not like he expects him too. So Michael follows behind his small entourage that gathers behind Manes, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. A few more security people flank them, giving Michael a single nod as they all move. 

Michael stops right outside of the dressing room, while Manes goes in along with the other assistants. He turns his back is against the closed door.

This isn’t so bad. He can definitely do this for three months, then politely tell Max to find someone else.

Half an hour later, a group of people shows up. Most of them already looking inebriated, and one of the assistants from before opens up the dressing room door to usher them in. Music starts to play, the beat low and thready, and there’s both laughter and the sound of champagne bottles popping. 

Michael could care less about whatever Manes likes to do in his free time. He _does_ have to make sure that Manes isn’t about to give him the slip whenever everyone leaves the place, though, so he stays alert. 

Ten more minutes pass, then twenty. He knows Manes is supposed to meeting with some label exec eventually, so he turns around, knocks on the door. 

No answer. Michael exhales through his nose, and he turns the doorknob. 

There are a number of people milling about, but he instantly knows that Manes is not in the room. A couple of people give him a second look as he strides through, making sure he’s not in some corner - and does this dressing room really have to be so big?

“Oh, come on,” Michael says when he sees it. The tiny window high up on the wall, more for building code safety than anything else, is open. There’s even a chair left beneath it, with a helpful footprint to tell him exactly what went on in the past half hour. 

He tugs the radio out of his ear. “Anyone want to tell me where he went?” Michael says out loud, over the music. A girl with smeared eye makeup blinks up at him from where she’s smoking on the ground. 

“He likes to party,” she says, then like Michael’s a little slow, “Shouldn’t you be with him?” 

“Yeah,” Michael says, “I really should.” 

\---

He learns from one of the assistants that the driver on duty had been instructed to take Manes and his friends into the city. He talks to one of the other drivers, who gives him a rough description of the car, the plate number that they’re using. Michael can’t help running a hand through his hair - Max is going to fire him right away - and he lets out a frustrated exhale. 

“Your first day, huh,” the driver says, eyeing him. “You know, there is a place that you could check…”

“Please,” Michael says, and he’s not ashamed to lean a little closer to her, say, “You would be my favorite person _ever,_ and I don’t use that lightly.”

  
  
She rolls her eyes, but there’s a tiny smile tugging at her mouth. “You better not.” 

With the club address in hand, Michael calls a cab. 

•••

He finds Manes in the back of that very club. He nearly doesn’t see him, not at first, until he spots a familiar silver-tipped boot on the top of a lounge cushion, swaying aimlessly with the beat of the music. 

Michael shoulders past people with relative ease, just giving the bouncer a look so he backs off. It’s too dark in here, so he has to go all the way in and right in front of the lounge to make sure it’s him. 

Yet Manes is wearing a pair of dark sunglasses, which he tilts down when Michael doesn’t budge. “Oh,” Manes greets from where he’s lying on the couch upside down, “It’s been a while.” 

He doesn’t sound pissed off, which is more than Michael expected. Up close, though, Michael can see how his pupils are way too large, tracking around his face with no real focus. 

“Manes,” Michael says evenly, “You know I’m supposed to be with you at all times.” 

Manes’s eyes are already falling to half-shut. He’s got a half-empty bottle of champagne in his hand, which he tries to take a swig of - only most of it ends up on the lounge cushions. Any stiffness in his posture from before is gone now, as well as any power - he looks angry and helpless all together, not what Michael would expect from a partying musician. He lets the bottle drop to the ground, and the carpet prevents it from smashing. 

There are a couple of camera flashes from the side, which makes Michael look over. There is a small group of paparazzi who must have followed him in, and he steps to the side a little to partially block Manes from view.

The person to his left doesn’t blink. Manes says, “You tell Max - you lost me already?”

“I found you, didn’t I?” Some waiter comes by with a tray full of shot glasses, and Michael discreetly moves in front of him to that Manes doesn’t get the chance to accept. 

He’s still not sitting up, though. Coming closer, Michael asks, “You all right?”

  
  
“Fantastic,” Manes says, slurring a little on the word. “We’re having a great time.“

Michael’s not about to point out that most of his friends look like zombies around then, the ones who aren’t hooting at someone on the dance floor or taking shots behind the lounge all passed out around him. 

He makes the executive decision when the crowd starts to get bigger, the bouncer barely able to hold them back now. “Think it’s time to go,” Michael says, promptly going to lift him when Manes doesn’t budge. 

Manes doesn’t struggle in any way, which concerns him more. No one bats an eye as Michael basically hoists him up entirely, cranes his neck to make sure the bouncer’s not about to let the whole crowd in right about now. 

“Ugh - you win, because I’ve lost my phone,” Manes says, his hands hot and damp from where they’re grasping at Michael’s arms. “You’re - stronger than you look.” 

“Well, Max didn’t hire me for my good looks.” Manes is able to walk, though, once he’s upright, and Michael makes sure he’s staying upright as he marches him out. 

“Hey,” Manes mumbles, and Michael strains to hear him over the music, “My brother’s a real dick. Can you tase him?” 

  
  
“I’ll look into it,” Michael says, throwing his arm over his shoulders to steady him when Manes stumbles a bit.

There’s a back exit to the club, one that Michael guides them through. There’s a limousine in an alley, which starts up again once they see Manes and Michael coming back, headlights flashing up against the dumpsters. 

Manes’s feet start to drag. “Hang on,” Michael says, before fully pushing Manes into the car, where he slumps over the seats before he closes the door. 

He gets into the front, tells the driver, “Back to the hotel.”

  
The driver obliges. There are far more paparazzi in front of the club as they pull out, a few getting close and trying to catch a photo inside, hitting the roof of the car as they go by. 

Michael glances back, where Manes has made it into a slightly more upright position. He lost his sunglasses now, and his eyes are closed, barely illuminated by the cameras going off outside. After a moment, he hits a button to his side, which rolls up the privacy partition separating them. Michael barely suppresses an eye roll. 

“Not bad,” the driver says to Michael once he turns back around. “You got him back the same night.”

“Got lucky.” Michael looks out the window. “This happens a lot?”

  
  
“Paparazzi weren’t too bad, back there. You’ll see.” The driver makes a smooth turn. “You’re the new guy, right?” 

“Michael Guerin.” 

“Sanders.”

“Any tips?”

  
  
“Watch the emergency staircases in the hotel,” Sanders says. “He likes to escape before record label meetings that way.” 

  
  
“Don’t suppose I could bribe you to let me know when he has you pick him up next, huh?”

  
  
“Don’t think you can bribe me as much as he pays me.” 

“Fair.” Michael watches the traffic some more. Before long, they’re pulling up at the back of the fancy hotel where everyone is staying. “See you tomorrow, then?”

  
  
“It’s my day off,” Sanders says, putting on the brake. “Just try not to lose him before the gig tomorrow.”

  
  
“Got it,” Michael says dryly. 

\---

It’s late enough so that the hotel is mostly empty. Thankfully, any paparazzi seem to be stopped by the doormen out front. They’re met by Manes’s assistant in the lobby, who blinks owlishly when he stops in front of them. Mane’s arm is thrown around his neck, and while he’s breathing and somewhat awake, he seems content to let Michael schlep him where he needs to be.

Michael sighs. “Key?” 

The assistant hands him two. “He's in the suite,” she says like that wouldn’t be obvious. “Your room is right next door. His prep team will be in tomorrow at noon.” 

“Tell them to bring lots of coffee,” Michael says, hoisting Manes up a little more. “Thanks.” 

Manes doesn’t say anything the whole elevator ride up. He smells like champagne, sweat, and something citrus, and his fingers curl a little against Michael’s skin. He does push Michael away when they’re halfway up, electing to lean against the mirrored side of the elevator and breath in and out, as Michael eyes him warily.

He gets out first, and Michael quickens his steps to unlock his room before Manes gets to the door. Manes walks in, and after a moment, Michael follows. 

The suite is ridiculously lavish, all-white furniture and gold everywhere, the bedroom area and the sitting room divided by several couches and lots of ugly art on the other walls. There are even large floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city, the orange glow from far below. 

He’s just in time to witness Manes disappear somewhere among the ridiculous number of pillows on top of the huge bed. After a moment, a single boot gets flung to the middle of the room. 

Michael says, “Are you good?” 

He gets a muffled response. 

“Kind of need to make sure you don’t asphyxiate or something in there.”

Manes lifts his head enough to be visible and shoots him a glare. His hair’s all messed up - but not in an intentional way like before, more in the late-night bedhead way. He doesn’t appear quite as drugged out,either, but looks all kinds of pale instead. 

“If it’s all the same,” Michael says slowly, “I should probably wait here a bit.”

Manes says, rather curtly, “Fine.”

Michael goes over to one of the couches and sits down. He’s been there before long enough to know just to wait. Before long, Manes is lurching upright from the bed, dashing over to the bathroom. 

Yeah, that’ll do it. He waits a bit until Manes emerges again - his hair now wet, but looking a little less pale, but at least he’s not drowned in the shower or something. “Feeling better?”

  
  
“Fuck off.” 

  
  
“There it is. Do you have water - “ Michael stops as Manes opens the full-sized fridge and pulls out a bottle of water, starts chugging right away. “Right.” 

Manes finishes the bottle, tossing it into the sink, and he pulls out two more. Michael, surprised, catches the one he lobs at him from across the room. “How’d you find me?” Manes rasps at last. 

At least he’s able to talk now. Michael rolls the bottle in his hands. “You’d rather be doing this back there?” 

In response, Manes slumps onto the end of one of the couches across from him. He’s not looking at Michael, not that he expects it. 

“You know,” Michael says, because the silence is more than a little stifling, “All your celebrity pals have bodyguards. Not like you’re a special case, needing extra security.”  


A snort, as Manes puts his head back into the cushions. “Yeah.” 

“Then why the hostility?” Michael wonders. “I mean, you went through six bodyguards in the last month - “

“You talk a _lot_ for a bodyguard.”

  
  
“I’m probably a very shitty bodyguard,” Michael says, “Just so we’re clear. I’m here as a favor to Max - “

“You know I could just fire you.” 

  
“ - well, yeah, but I think you’ll find I’m the least annoying person for the job,” Michael says, and he sends a cheerful grin when Manes cracks his eyes open for another glare. “Would hate to be the unlucky seventh. Would you rather be handcuffed to Max 24/7? I’m told that’s a consideration.” 

“That’s why you have this job for now.”

“Also to make sure no one kidnaps you while you’re hungover tomorrow,” Michael says, “Which you will be.”

  
  
“Kidnapped?”

  
  
“Hungover.”

  
  
“Won’t be the last time,” Manes says, nearly defiantly. He puts his arm behind his head, his eyes fully closed by now. 

Pretty soon, though, it’s clear that Manes has fallen asleep. Michael gets up, stretches a bit. He gets a blanket to drape over him, plus another bottle of the water on the side table. Manes doesn’t move, as he creeps by, slides out of the suite and into his own room.

\---

He can’t sleep right away. So despite any questionable professional ethics, Michael pulls out his phone, googles _Alex Manes_. 

A couple of news articles pop up instantly, plus the requisite Wikipedia page. Nothing from the club earlier - at least so far - but there are a few speculative articles on his upcoming album. A video clip of him leaving another celebrity’s party, big sunglasses not big enough to hide the huge scowl on his face, then a compilation of clips of him performing at Coachella. A few risque magazine photoshoots that Michael quickly scrolls by. 

He clicks on the Wikipedia page, filled with a truly disturbing level of detail that rivals the dossier that Max had given him earlier on the plane. Apparently he was born in New Mexico, moved east after the death of his father. Openly gay since he was nineteen. Never been married, no known kids, apparently went off the grid a few months back that everyone thought was rehab. 

He’s not even sure why he’s so curious. He’s going to be spending most of his days with the guy, anyway. Michael locks his phone again, plugs it in after making sure the alarm is set. 

\---

In the morning, Manes barely acknowledges him. After showing and shaving, Michael sidles into the suite when there are several people getting him ready for the concert later - a makeup artist dabs a sponge under his eyes, another is teasing his hair on the top. Either he's got a liver made of iron, or his makeup artist has worked a miracle before Michael got there, because he looks nowhere near hungover.

Michael dodges someone pushing a clothing rack past him, before leaning against the wall. Manes’s eyes go up for a moment, meeting his in the large mirror, before he's looking away again, speaking to one of his stylists.

He tails Manes back down to the lobby when it’s time to go. There’s a limo waiting out front again, as well as cheering fans held back by barricades on either side of the hotel’s entrance, some of them holding up signs. Manes stops, takes a few photos with them before he eventually gets into the limo. 

But before Michael gets into the front of the car, Manes says, rather tersely, “Sit back here.” 

Michael obeys, more than a little curious, and closes the door. The car starts, pulling away from the front of the hotel. 

Manes presses the button which makes the partition go up, blocking them from the driver’s curious eyes. After a moment, he says, “I apologize for last night.” 

That, he didn’t expect. “You’re apologizing for running away?" 

“Not that,” Manes says, then a little icily, “You didn’t have to stay, once we got back.” 

“Uh, I think I did,” Michael says. He’s not quite sure what to say here. “It fell under your personal safety to make sure you didn’t fall out of a window or something.” 

“Regardless,” Manes pushes on, “I trust that you do understand the professional integrity of your position - “ 

  
  
For someone who’s been roped into this job, Michael feels more than a little indignant. “Yeah, I do,” he interrupts, “And sorry if I broke some unspoken rule by making sure you didn’t pass out on the ground.”

He’s missing something here. Manes’ dark-lined eyes go angry as he looks at him. “I mean,” he says, “Whatever I might have said, I trust that you will keep confidential.”

  
  
“I signed an NDA, don’t worry.” 

“Everyone does. And yet - “

“Listen,” Michael says, patience running thin. “You didn’t say anything even remotely interesting, not that I care. Both my siblings work for you, I mean - you don’t have to worry about that from me.” 

Manes just looks at him. After a moment, he says, “I trust Max and Isobel. I don’t know you.”

“You should probably trust that I have your best interests in mind,” Michael points out. Two can play this game. “This how you lost the last bunch of bodyguards, they sell some gossip on the first night?”

  
“Three of them quit,” Manes says, then nearly challengingly, “Apparently, I can be hard to work with."

  
  
“We’ll see,” Michael says. “I have a couple of my own tricks up my sleeve.” _Let it be known that Michael Guerin does not turn down from a challenge_. 

“You talk a lot for a bodyguard.” 

“You already said that last night,” Michael says, just to be a little petty. He thinks he might see the ghost of a smile appear on Manes’s face, but the man turns away to look out the window before he can be sure.

\---

So. It turns out, Manes is _electric_ when he’s performing. 

Michael hasn’t been to many live concerts. Shows aren’t really his thing, but even he can tell that whatever Manes has, he’s got it. The audience is similarly enraptured, moving and swaying along with his music, which is something given the stadium is _packed_. Michael’s not even sure what the genre really is, but Manes seems to perform throaty, crooning sort of songs with heavy bass lines one minute, a lightning-fast, up-tempo melody next on his guitar, then a song that everyone in the crowd seems to know the words to. 

He’s backstage, watching the performance. There’s security at the bottom of the stage, watching the crowd, so he’s free to mill about a little. He could be using this time to call Iz, arrange for dinner tonight, only he’s transfixed by watching him perform. 

After a particularly upbeat song - one that had him with nearly his whole body against the stage, arching up to sing into the microphone - Manes takes a break to open a bottle of water. There’s a flush high on his cheeks, his entire body glimmering with sweat, and he looks _alive_. Manes empties the rest of the bottle over his head, water soaking the thin material of his tee-shirt, and he catches Michael's eye, for just a second, before he's heading back out. 

Michael drags his eyes away to look out at the crowd, still cheering for him.

\---

After the concert, Michael is relieved by one of the security people. _God help you_ , he thinks, as he gives a half-wave to the man who’s assigned to tail Manes from here on out. Manes himself has once disappeared into his dressing room, and at least know he has solid plans to head out for the night, so hopefully, no escaping from windows. 

Isobel texts him the address of the restaurant, and Michael shows up still wearing the jeans he wore to the concert. Iz rolls her eyes when she sees him stride into the upscale place looking like that, but gets up to give him another tight hug. 

“I’m glad this means I’ll see more of you,” she says, already pouring him a glass of wine as they get seated again. “How was your first day?”

  
  
“Well,” Michael says, weighing how much he can actually tell her without her being obligated to report him to Max or something, “Manes did escape from me. I found him pretty quick, but I understand why a bunch of people quit before me.”  


“He really is a sweetheart,” Isobel says, “I think he just likes his privacy, too.” 

“Max really couldn’t get someone else? Pretty sure he’s on his way to hating me.”

  
  
Isobel gives a half-shrug. “Max hired a few ex-military types at first, and those went bad enough that he knew he needed someone else.” 

  
  
“Huh,” Michael says. “Personality clash?”

“Something like that,” Isobel says. “Now - I’m guessing you haven’t found a place to live while you’re here.”

  
  
“Yeah, might need to crash on your couch for tonight,” Michael says. Max had been so anxious to get him here, he’d barely had the time to sublet his apartment, let alone look for a new place. “That okay?”

  
  
Isobel hesitates for a split second, before saying, “Yes. I might - I’m seeing someone.”

  
  
He straightens up. “ _Oh_?”

“Shut up. Tonight’s fine, but… it’s new. We’re not at meet the family yet.”

  
  
“They spend a lot of time at yours, then?”

  
  
“I hate you.”

  
  
“You missed me,” Michael grins around his glass. “Come on. Someone you’ve told me about?”

  
  
“Ugh,” Isobel says. “Maybe Manes _should_ fire you.”

"You're going to tell me - are you _blushing_?" 

" _I will fire you myself_ \- " 

\---

The next morning, he reports in for duty again at the hotel. There are a couple of days before the next gig, so Manes’s schedule is full of appointments around the city instead, and Michael tails him as a dutiful bodyguard might. 

It’s a full six hours before he manages to give Michael the slip again. This time, Michael gets out of the car outside of the recording studio - a stop that Manes had requested before he got into the car. 

When he opens the door, Manes is nowhere to be seen. Unhelpfully, his cell phone and wallet are on the seat. 

“Shit,” Michael swears, slamming the door shut again and looking around. The driver looks unimpressed. “Did you see him go?”

  
  
He shrugs. Michael looks over the car, realizes that they had been in slow enough traffic, that’s it’s possible, a few blocks ago - 

He hits the roof, once, and takes off. There are not too many blocks where he could’ve gotten out, Michael reasons, and it’s going to take too long to drive there.

\---

An hour later, Michael drops in the red seat across from him. It’s a dingy kind of diner where no one gives anyone a second glance, not even high-profile celebrities who are sitting in front of a burger and fries, sweatshirt pulled over his head. 

Manes gives him a quick look, but incredibly, doesn’t look one bit repentant. He eats another french fry under Michael’s stare. 

“Figured you hadn’t eaten in a while, might be hungry,” Michael says. “Just in case you were curious as to how I found you this time. Had to be somewhere quiet enough, and within walking distance - narrowed it down enough.”

“That was quick.”

  
  
“Well, it’s the third place I found,” Michael says, and he steals a french fry, _professional integrity_ be damned. "Guess I got lucky again." 

“I could’ve called a taxi. Then you would’ve been really off.”

  
  
“You left your wallet in the limo.”

  
  
“Clever,” Manes says, and he takes a bite of his burger. 

“You know,” Michael says, as Manes chews, “If anyone sees you here, it’s not going to be long until this place is swarming with people who won’t let you eat peacefully, at best.”  


  
“I like it here. Wrote my first hit song,” and Manes twists a bit, looking, “Over there, in that corner booth.”

"An ode to milkshakes?"

"You don't listen to my music, do you?"  
  
  


"Nah," Michael says. He thought about it - but no. Best not. "Do you listen to yourself on the radio?"   


"I don't."  
  
  


"Ego thing?"  
  
  


"Why do you care?"   
  
  


"I just wanted to ask," Michael says, with a shrug. The bored-looking waitress comes over, and he orders a coffee. When she strolls away, he asks, “So how were you planning on paying?"

  
  
Manes shrugs, that bastard. “Figured someone would find me soon enough. Congratulations, I suppose." 

“You’re lucky I get paid a lot to make sure no one steals your discarded napkins.” Michael accepts his coffee. “I suppose this means you’re skipping out on that studio session?”

  
  
“I’ll go in later,” Manes says with a shrug, “You don’t need to be there - “ 

“You’re going to make me grow white hair, but so help me, I’m not letting you out of my sight today,” Michael tells him. “Pass me that ketchup. Who eats french fries plain?” 

\---

Manes is perhaps one of the most infuriating people that Michael has ever met. As they walk back to the studio (because Manes says, _it’s a nice day out, I’m walking, feel free to not join me_ , like Michael has a _choice_ ) Michael keeps an eye out, even though Manes has pulled on his sunglasses once again, because he can already tell that several people have turned their heads at the sight of them. 

It is a nice day, though. It’s cloudy and warm, with just a slight breeze that comes through every once in a while. It reminds him a bit of the times he’d skip school when he was a kid, go lie out on the back of his truck and stare up at the sky. 

They’re not so lucky as to escape the paparazzi this time, though - they’re about two blocks away when they start to gather attention. Not long after, two men with cameras run up alongside them, snapping photos of Manes walking. Michael can almost picture the headline - _Alex Manes on the go - Rock god strolls like us fellow mortals!_

“Alex, who’s the new boyfriend?”

“Alex! Are you going to work on your new album?” 

Manes, for his part, raises a magnanimous hand in response. Michael presses in a little closer to him, wishing he would walk just a _little_ faster. 

“Alex! Look here - “ Another paparazzo joins them, with an even larger camera. 

  
  
“ - opinion on what he said about you, the other day - “

“Alex, is it true that you’re dating - “ 

“I just ignore them,” Manes says, and Michael’s attention snaps back to him. "It's easiest." 

“That’s a good idea,” he mutters, tugging at Manes’s elbow. He doesn’t like that they’re being joined by more and more people, and they still have a block to go. “See why taxis are a great idea, now?”

  
  
Manes doesn’t have anything to say to that, but he might hurry up his pace just a little under Michael’s urging.

They’re just rounding the corner to the studio when it happens. Some man lurches out, and he’s got a slightly crazed expression, maybe because he’s a super-fan, or maybe because he thinks that Manes killed his dog or something. 

He’s got a phone in his hand, and he shouts something. Michael and Manes both step to the side to avoid him, but then the man is jumping at them, reaching to clutch at Manes, and Michael doesn’t think.

He neatly steps in between Manes and the man, and using a trick utilized many a time at the dive bar he used to work at, grabs the man’s shoulders to keep him away. When he pushes on, Michael twists to the side, at the same time sweeping his legs out from underneath him. He takes down the man in a matter of seconds, releasing him once he’s on the ground. 

A gasp radiates from the crowd around them, but Michael’s attention doesn’t waver. He’s back at Manes’s side at once, guiding him through - and even though more people have joined now, he’s able to hustle Manes through, all the way up the steps to the studio, where there’s a doorman hurrying down to meet them.

It’s only when they’re inside the building that Michael turns to him. “Are you okay?” 

  
  
Manes is blinking at him, though, looking like Michael is the one who jumped out at him. “Yeah,” he says. “I - didn’t expect that.”

  
  
“I was scrappy in high school,” Michael says, releasing him, making sure he isn't injured or anything with a quick once-over. Manes doesn’t move away, though, that gaze scrutinizing his face still. Michael swallows. “Come on. Don’t you have an album to record?”

  
Annoyance flashes in Manes’s eyes at that, his jaw clenching. “You didn’t have - “

  
  
“Oh my god, I _did_ have to do that,” Michael says. “It's _literally_ my job." 

  
  
Manes studies him. “Thank you, Guerin,” he says, and Michael doesn’t know quite what to make of that, as a slow smile starts to grow on his face, unlike what else he's seen before from him. 

Manes is _handsome_ , he realizes, not just in the hot disheveled rock-star way, because Michael would be liar if he didn't notice _that_ , that's probably part of the reason he has this career after all, but he's also the kind that makes something in his stomach swoop.

Which is really the last thought he should be having at this moment, and Michael tears his gaze away from his face to look around the very nice lobby, the fascinating album art on the walls, the exits he probably should let the rest of the security detail know about right about now - 

“Yeah,” Michael mutters, “You’re just lucky he didn’t have a knife or something. I like this jacket, Manes, would be a shame to get stabbed for you.”

  
When he looks back, Manes’s lips quirk. “You can call me Alex,” he says. While Michael is caught off guard by this, he turns around, going to where the studio manager must be waiting for him. 

  
  
And Michael follows.

\---


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all your kind comments!!! this second update has more feelings, new characters, bits of plot and also none at all, and of course, lots of pining in various nondescript hotel suites (the real motivation for writing this fic)
> 
> as always, let me know what you think! :)

\---

At first, Michael takes to dividing up Alex Manes’ behavior by two names. Manes, Michael thinks of as the prickly rock star who sneaks out among a crowd of groupies when they’re in Vegas - who Michael finds early the next morning, looking stoned out of his mind and hitting the buttons on a gaming machine in a trashy casino. 

Alex, then, is the too-calm man who takes a sip of his coffee on the way to the airport the next morning, and after Michael gives him the requisite lecture, he says, “You know, when you’re angry at me you have the exact same mannerisms as Isobel,” with that slight tilt to his head that gives Michael the urge to fling himself out of the moving car. 

Maybe there’s something to be said about fame and privacy and sanity here, the whole idea of a celebrity persona. Compartmentalizing the habits that come along with a whole lot of disposable income and intense scrutiny from the public would make anyone come up with another personality, he thinks. 

But then again, it’s not like he can easily divide him up into those two categories. Alex Manes is demanding and stubborn and frustrating, and he’s kind and thoughtful and open-minded. Michael can’t divide all his behavior, because above all else, Alex is unpredictable both on and off the stage, and it’s probably why he went through all those previous bodyguards because Michael had never met someone so deft at being unexpected.

Maybe if Alex ignored him, it would be easier. He makes Michael nervous, because Alex Manes is complicated, and Michael can’t pin him down like anyone else he’s ever met. He can’t observe him from any kind of distance, because even if Alex is starting to accept that Michael is his new shadow, it doesn’t mean that he’s going to let Michael have an easy time of it. 

\---

One night, after they’ve gotten back from a late rehearsal, Michael happens to open the hotel room door at the right time. He had a half-made plan of going down to one of the restaurants for a late dinner, or maybe to beg room service from someone. Instead, he’s greeted by the sight of Alex halfway to the elevator down the hallway. He’s even got his shoes off and in his hands, probably so that Michael wouldn’t have heard the footsteps going by his door. 

Alex just turns and gives him a baleful expression. “I’m just going down to the lobby,” he says defensively, his arm still outstretched to hit the elevator button. “I’ll be back,” he adds. 

“Oh good,” Michael drawls, crossing his arms. “I was about to go. What are you doing?” 

Alex’s eyes narrow. “There was… a sculpture exhibit down there. Looked interesting. I doubt you’d like it.” 

“But that sounds like a real fun time.”

“I was just going out for a bit,” Alex says instead, and maybe there’s an ounce of truth there, despite the shifting eyes. “I need to clear my head, go for a run.” 

Michael sighs. “You’re really gonna make me go out in this rain?” He can hear it outside the windows, a steady thrum against the glass. 

“You allergic to a bit of water?” Alex challenges. 

So that’s how Michael ends up running several miles in a downpour so that Alex doesn’t get kidnapped in an off-white van. He’s just lucky it’s dark enough, and that Alex chooses a secluded enough path that no one notices them this late. He keeps an eye out, even as they run down more and more empty streets, the only sounds being their heavy breathing and the patter of feet upon the pavement. 

It starts off a little awkwardly, Alex jogging at a pace that nearly suggests that he’s either really caught in his own head and unaware of muscle fatigue, or he’s trying to leave him in the dust. But when Michael keeps up, and he perhaps, more importantly, he doesn’t start any conversation, Alex starts to talk to him. 

They start off simple - Alex asks what he thought about the concert (very glittery, Michael remembers, and the fireworks were a nice touch), whether he’s ever been to Seattle (no), or if he’s listened to any of his music at all yet (“Nice try,” Michael says, “You just want to up your sales.) Then, Alex asks what kind of music Michael listens to.

Two miles in, they’re arguing over the best Fleetwood Mac song. Alex is vehement about his opinion on Silver Springs, it turns out. While Michael’s at best neutral, it’s a lot of fun to so easily rile him up by suggesting that it was a good idea to cut it from the album (a fast that Alex drops, and Michael didn’t even know, but he’s sure going to press that sore spot since it makes Alex splutter like that). 

He realizes that this might be the longest he’s talked to anyone for a while, now. That makes Michael slow down a bit, and Alex glances over reflexively, before coming to a stop. 

“Shoelace,” he says when Michael raises his eyebrows. “I’ll let you catch your breath, too.”

The rain’s started to taper off a bit, but Michael finds that it’s bothering him a lot less now. They’re getting close to the hotel, and he realizes that whatever this is, it’s nice. “Appreciate it,” Michael says, “The other plan was to knock you in a puddle, so, it’s a win-win.” 

Tying his lace, Alex says, “You’re not what I expected. This hasn’t been - the worst, I have to say.” 

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Michael says. He stretches his arms above his head until he feels a pleasant strain just behind his shoulders. His jacket and shirt ride up, cool air meeting his navel, and he shivers a little. 

Alex makes a little sound, like a cough. God, he hopes this isn’t going to give him pneumonia, though he bets he has his vocal cords insured for a million bucks or something. “Questionable music opinions aside, I mean. What has Stevie Nicks ever done to you?” 

“Who’s that again?”

“You are killing me, Guerin.” 

Michael glances down at him. “Look at you, gushing,” he says, and Alex’s mouth tilts up on one side. 

Under the harsh light, which should make anyone look ghoulish, Alex’s gaze looks more intense, fixated on him, the light bringing out all the contours in his features. It’s more than a little hard to do more than blink away the rain from his eyes, under that look. Michael feels the rain drip down on his own face, just as he can see the droplets slide down Alex’s cheeks in turn. 

“You really are,” Michael starts, in return, but the words seem to be lost long before they get out of his mouth. As if expecting him to finish his sentence, Alex raises his eyebrows. It’s hard to tell if there’s any real meaning behind the shift in his expression, as Michael gives a non-committal shrug, trying to avoid actually finishing the thought. 

“You’re not the worst,” Alex says again. He gets up, and when he turns to look at Michael again, that intensity is reduced back to its regular simmer. “Race you back?” 

“Yeah - hey, wait, I’m supposed to be with you - “

\---

  
They slide into a kind of an understanding which revolves around Michael letting Alex do what he wants, as long as he’s there with him. Max and his security team can bitch all they want, Alex tells Michael, but he’s tolerating Michael Guerin only, apparently. 

It seems to work because Alex stops ditching him, and so Michael gets to keep his job. Even more, Max seems both proud and perplexed that Michael has lasted this long, and he’s started to make noises about signing him on for a longer contract. Which Michael thinks is jumping the gun a little, but hey, job security is a new thing for him. 

The concerts are pretty easy, because that’s when there’s the most outside security, and he can relax a bit. During the long travel hours, they go from semi-comfortable silence to trading barbs and stories, and Alex has yet to find a way to escape from the moving tour bus. He also spends hours focused on writing and recording for the new album, when Michael can sit in the corner of the room and listen to him mutter under his breath, mostly. 

The other outings, Michael covers by himself. When they’re out at some club, Michael watches Alex down fluorescent shots with a bunch of other celebrities that he should probably recognize. He looks perfectly at ease, all Manes the rock star, who manages to keep his guard up even when trashed out of his mind on who knows what until he lets Michael call the car for them (or, rather, is too drunk or high to really care). 

As far as he can tell — and he thinks he would notice, given the constant proximity — there’s no boyfriend in the picture. There are those handsy, enamored men who come and go, but no recurring faces, and certainly none that Alex would ever bring up. If that means no creepy ex-boyfriends Michael has to look out for, hey, that’s a good thing.

Michael witnesses a reporter asking him about it, once, when Alex is doing an interview for some popular music blog. Alex’s face does that kind of polite grimace he pulls before he shuts down the line of inquiry. 

While the reporter is being not-so-subtle in trying to get more of an answer out of him, Alex happens to glance over to him. Michael carefully schools his face into something neutral, like he hadn’t been listening. 

But maybe it’s not so careful, after all, because Alex looks just a little distracted by it for a moment, a faint line formed on his forehead, before he starts talking about the tour to the reporter once again. 

Michael doesn’t think much of it, because he knows he needs to watch out from becoming too close. He isn’t being paid to be Alex’s friend. If it feels natural to be around him, well, that’s just because there hasn’t been a colossal fuck-up yet. 

  
\---

  
He thinks it’s going well between them.

But then, in Chicago, Alex runs off. 

They’re at a high-end salon, where Alex engages in some intricate ritual with the head stylist, involving a debate with many hand gestures from both parties, and a lot of consulting a large book of previous haircuts — all of which results in an incredibly subtle change to his hair, to Michael’s admittedly untrained eye. He can tell it’s a whole production, though, and if Michael lets his guard down a little, it’s because, for most of the time, Alex is trapped by two pairs of scissors and one of those black ponchos all around him and the chair underneath. 

  
.   
Then as they’re getting ready to head out, though, Michael gets cornered by an over-enthusiastic junior stylist who gestures at his curls, saying something about a new leave-in conditioner. When he manages to get free, he scans the room for that dark head of hair — but Alex is nowhere to be seen. 

Michael hurries outside, but the security detail parked out front isn’t helpful at all. Neither are the people inside the building, who all claim that Alex was there just a moment ago, really. 

So once again, Michael finds himself short of a rock star. 

Eventually — after some controlled panic, scanning social media, and checking every diner in a five-block radius — he finds Alex in the middle of a nearby park. 

Relieved, Michael sends a quick update to the driver to come meet them on the edge of the park, before he approaches. 

His relief is short-lived, though, when he sees that Alex is not alone. There’s a woman sitting on the bench next to him, who turns in sync with him to watch Michael approach. Alex is wearing those huge sunglasses of his again, tilting them down a little to eye Michael as he finally comes up to stand in front of them. They’re both holding milkshakes, for god’s sake, looking as though him coming up huffing and puffing is a form of entertainment. 

“Feel like showing off your new haircut?” Michael says just a little snidely, mostly because Alex looks utterly unrepentant at being caught.

The woman takes a slurp of her milkshake.

“I just felt like stretching my legs for a bit,” Alex throws back. He pushes his sunglasses up to rest in his newly coiffed hair. “Guerin, this is Liz Ortecho. I’ve known Liz for entirely too long not to see her when I’m in the same city. Liz, this is my ever-persistent bodyguard, Michael Guerin, who doesn’t like it when I make independent choices.” 

Liz waves her hand at him. “Hi, Michael Guerin.” She’s evidently close to Alex, given the arm she has around his shoulders. “Is Alex giving you a hard time?” 

“No more than usual,” Michael says, glancing around them. “Can I convince you both, just perhaps, to relocate?”

“Liz is coming to the show tonight,” Alex says instead. He actually looks far more relaxed than Michael has possibly ever seen him, his face loose and even unworried. “God, when’s the last time you saw me perform - high school?” 

“You have gotten better at eyeliner since then,” Liz chirps. 

“I learned from the best.” 

“I’m only going if I get a meet-and-greet after, you know.” 

“I think that could be arranged.” 

“Good, I heard the opening band is even better than the main act.” 

Michael should not be jealous at all that someone else has an easy banter with Alex, honestly. He really needs to get this show on the road, though. He starts again, “So, if we could just take a stroll to the car - “ 

Turning his smile from Liz to Michael, Alex interrupts him. “Liz was going to show me around the city today, give me a walking tour."

“Yeah, no,” Michael cuts in return. The smile disappears, and Alex is back to looking annoyed. “People already know you’re here for the show, so unless you want a mob forming - “ 

  
“Guerin,” Alex says, like he’s the one being unreasonable, “Once I get in the car, then people will follow, and then I can’t leave the car.”

  
“Well, we wouldn’t want a mob to form,” Liz says from beside him, reasonably, “Alex, we can just hang out wherever you need to be.” 

“He’s exaggerating,” Alex starts, which he might have been able to convince her with, had a woman not stopped by at that very moment to take a selfie with him. 

Liz hides her smile as she moves down the bench a bit, Alex standing and giving one of those half-smirks into the camera. Then her friend also wanted a photo, which he obliges, all the while Michael makes sure none of the gawking passerby do more than sneak a photo or two of the scene. 

When the first wave of fans finally leave, Liz stands up too. “Come on,” she says to Alex, “I don’t want to give Guerin a heart attack.”

“He’ll live,” Alex says, as Michael huffs involuntarily. “We should walk back to your office - “ 

“I’ve already told my lab assistant not to expect me back today,” Liz tells him, and Michael mentally sends her his eternal, eternal gratitude. “Come on, I want to see your tour bus!”

“Fine,” Alex says, giving in, amazingly enough. “But tomorrow, all right? I haven’t seen your new apartment yet.”

Michael mouths thank you to Liz, behind Alex’s back, and her smirk grows. 

“I’ve lived there for five years by now,” Liz says, and Alex puts his arm around her now as they start to walk. “You have got to use FaceTime like the rest of us sometime.”

If Alex acts like this when Liz is around, well, Michael is going to have to convince her to become a groupie. Liz pats him on the arm when she walks around him with Alex, and Michael decides he's not going to interpret it as a pitying gesture. 

\---

  
After the requisite tour bus visit at the venue — “I thought it would’ve been nicer,” Liz says with a wrinkled nose, and Alex says, “You and me both,” — she gets brought into the dressing room along with the prep team while Alex gets ready for the show. 

Michael waits outside the door, as usual, speaking with a couple of crew members as they go by. He’s starting to learn more and more of their names, which is helpful since he’s been asking favors from more than half of them to help him find Alex these past few weeks. 

Max is there, and he gives Michael a quick one-armed hug as he comes by. “Isobel told me to tell you that she thinks she’ll be in Montreal when we are,” he says. “Everything working out?"

“As can be expected,” Michael says. “Want to grab a drink later?” 

“I know a good place around the corner,” Max starts before the door opens. The prep team files out, followed by Alex and Liz. "Hey, Manes."

“Hey, Max,” Alex says. He’s wearing something tight and leather, plus several strands of beaded necklaces that hang down low on his chest. There’s a matching one draped over Liz’s neck. “This is my friend Liz, she’ll be backstage tonight.” 

“Hi,” Max says, blinking at her. _Oh, this’ll be good_ , Michael thinks. “That’s absolutely fine. It’s nice — to meet you.” 

  
“Alex told me about you,” Liz says, a bright smile on her face. “You grew up in Albuquerque, right?” 

“Yes,” Max says, his eyes wide, like she’s just asked him an impossibly difficult question to get out. “I - um - moved there for high school. You know it?”

“I went to college there,” Liz answers, seemingly nonchalant about the effect that she’s having on him - or maybe not, as Michael sees the way that Alex passes a hand over his face to disguise his amusement. “How long have you been working for Alex?” 

“I’ve been doing security for Manes - I mean, Alex - for, uh - “ 

Michael is distracted from staring at the color that Max’s ears are turning by Alex’s hand on his arm. The touch makes him look over quick, and Alex gives him that amused look, now softer. “Hey,” he says, as his assistant starts to put on his mic for him, hooking it around and to the back of his pants. “I was going to ask you to keep an eye out for Liz tonight, though I might be asking the wrong person now.” 

“Yeah, I won’t be the one staring at her,” Michael says, jerking his head over to Liz and Max. Neither of them are paying any attention to him, though. “Did you talk up my brother to her?”

“I had a suspicion they’d like each other,” Alex says. He accepts the mic pack from one of the sound tech people. “Is he usually like this, though?” 

Michael glances over to where Max is stuttering out something that’s making Liz smile even bigger. “I’m not sure Max knows how to talk to women, let alone ones as pretty as her. She might just eat him alive.” 

Alex snorts. Max catches Michael’s eye, and he quickly turns his head back to Liz when Michael starts to waggle his eyebrows. 

“He’s trying his best, isn’t he?” Alex says, slipping an earpiece into his ear. “Maybe I should’ve told Liz to be easy on him.” 

“That poor woman,” Michael says, as a makeup artist steps briskly in front of him to dust powder over Alex’s forehead. “If she can stand Russian literature, he’s going to pull out a ring right here, I’m telling you.” 

“Well, she’s definitely interested in what she sees, and I can’t blame her.” 

The makeup artist departing, Michael grimaces. “That’s my brother you’re talking about.” 

“I have eyes,” Alex says with faux innocence, “And he’s got those arms.”

Michael tries not to splutter. “What?” 

  
“Try not to sound so jealous, Guerin,” Alex says, mouth quirking, before he’s slipping down the hallway. Caught off guard, Michael takes a moment before following him. 

  
—-

They all hang out to the side of the stage when Alex goes on. Liz and Max spent the entire opening act talking to each other until the music gets too loud when they both appear to revert to looking like nervous high schoolers on their first date, standing very close to each other and sneaking glances when the other isn’t looking. Maybe they’re not so different. Meanwhile, Michael leans against some instrument case and watches him. 

As usual, Alex is performing his heart out on stage. Michael watches him now, as he’s getting everyone to wave their lit-up phones during one of his slower songs so the entire space is swarmed by the bright-white dots. The beads from his necklaces catch the light as he closes his eyes and sways right behind the central mic, hands clasped on the stand in front of him as he croons out to the crowd, looking like he’s singing to all of them individually. 

There’s a hand at his elbow, and Michael looks over to Liz. “He’s really something,” she half-shouts in his ear, because quiet song or no, you can’t hear anything from right up close like this. “Don’t you think?” 

The song changes. Alex loops a guitar around his neck. As he strums it, his body seems to sway with the music, his head going back, eyes closed, and he looks just as lost within the sound as anyone out there. It’s like there’s no one watching him, and he’s just playing for the sake of listening.

“Yeah,” Michael says back, just a minute too late, “He is,” but Liz is already swaying to the music again, and doesn’t appear to hear him. 

\---

  
After the show, Alex has a meet-and-greet with some of the fans. He goes down a line of people behind the barricade, takes some photos and signs tee-shirts, and Michael just has to make sure no one gets too enthusiastic with a Sharpie. He guides Alex down the line, gently pushes back when an arm with a camera phone gets too close to him. All in all, it’s supposed to be very low-key. 

When they’re about halfway down the line, Michael sees a man at the end. Unlike the other fans, he’s got a determined kind of look on his face that rarely bodes well, and Michael can see that there’s a plastic lanyard around his neck. 

Michael reaches out to touch Alex’s shoulder in warning. “Someone from the press at the end,” Michael says into his ear, “Want me to intervene?” 

Alex looks between him and the man at the end, who now has someone else behind him, maybe an assistant or something. “It’s fine,” Alex says, and his face doesn’t change as he accepts a card from one of the fans. “It happens - oh, thank you so much,” he says, now smiling at the girl, who looks like she’s about to swoon. “You drew this yourself?” “I can get him out of here,” Michael offers again a few minutes later, but Alex just shakes his head. 

“Best to just get it over with,” he says, before plastering another one of those easy smiles on his face and continuing down the line to take a photo with another group of fans. 

The journalist steps even closer to the barricade as they approach. The smile doesn’t leave Alex’s face, but he doesn’t exactly make any warm gestures either. Most of the fans have been guided out at this point, but a few linger, talking and snapping photos of Alex. 

“You’re from Jukebox, right?” Alex says as he comes in front of him. “I remember you from that interview last summer.”

“Good memory,” the journalist says, holding out his phone set on record. “I just wanted to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind?" As he speaks, the assistant from behind him steps out. He’s got a strangely familiar face, if Michael can just place it -

“It’s been a while,” the man says, and the smile vanishes from Alex’s face. 

He must be one of Alex’s brothers, one of the people whose photos are right under the Do Not Let In list that Max had given him - so who let him in here? 

Michael is ready to herd him away, but Alex says, low, “Hold on,” and Michael stops mid-step. Alex addresses the man directly, with a hard line to his jaw. “What do you want?” 

“Oh, Alex,” the man says, hands in his pockets. “No need to make a scene in front of the fans.” He’s got Alex’s dark eyes and hair, but his expression is something that Michael’s not sure he could ever see on Alex’s face. “They sure love you, don’t they?”

  
“It’s funny, Charlie,” Alex snaps, “I don’t remember you working for Jukebox.”

“Oh, Jones here is an old friend,” Charlie says, patting the journalist on his back with no familiarity behind the gesture. “I thought I’d bring him back here with me, since he would just love to have a word with the star.”

The journalist nods. “Oh, definitely. Alex, everyone from Jukebox is dying to know - how’s the album coming along?”

Looking like it’s a Heraclean gesture, Alex turns to answer Jones, “It’s going really well, thank you for asking - “ 

  
“I mean, it’s easier than getting you on the phone, that’s for sure,” Charlie interrupts him. The journalist is glancing between the two of them, probably eating this all up. “Are you that busy, or is the partying just getting out of hand?” 

“The meet-and-greet is over,” Alex says flatly to the journalist, looking like he’s trying to ignore his brother. “My publicist will have to contact you to find another time - “ 

“Why the rush, Alex?” Charlie says, and his smile is cold. “Heard you’re having some money troubles.”

Jones’s head moves up. “Is that true?” 

Michael takes another quick step so that he’s half in front of Alex, between them. “You have to go,” he orders.

But the man just eyes him up and down, now, with a faint sneer. “This another one of your boys, Alex?”

He can feel Alex stiffen beside him. “Try bodyguard,” Michael replies shortly, looking right into Charlie’s eyes. “Last warning.” 

  
Charlie’s eyes narrow, but before he can do as much as open his mouth, “That’s enough,” Alex says curtly. “This is over.” 

He turns neatly to walk away, boots heavy and fast on the ground. Michael is fast to follow him, once he’s sure that neither Charlie nor the reporter are about to push through the rail and follow him or something.

Before they can get out of earshot, though, Charlie calls out, “I’ll be in touch!” before the fucking venue security finally deigns to escort them away. 

Michael reaches out, puts an arm just behind Alex’s back when his step falters for a second, and he’s guiding him out of the room. 

  
  
\---

  
Michael passes through the doorway of the dressing room just as Alex snaps, “Fuck!”, and he’s slamming his hands down on the vanity in front of him. The various makeup containers and bottles all jump with a clatter. 

  
Past the other people in the room, Michael can see both Liz and Max’s heads turn quickly. In a loud voice, Michael orders, “Clear the room.” Everyone file out pretty quickly after that, casting nervous looks at either Alex or at him. As Michael closes the door, Max goes over to him. “What happened?” he says, face serious. Behind him, Liz moves over to Alex. 

But Alex speaks up first. “Charlie is here,” he says, and Max turns. “He got some journalist from Jukebox to vouch for him through security into the meet and greet, told him about the suit. I don’t - know if he left.” 

Max nods, quick. “I’ll make sure he’s out for good,” he promises. With another look at Michael, he slips out of the back door, already pulling out his phone as he goes. 

Now it’s just him, Liz and Alex. “Alex,” Liz says quietly, coming up behind him, “Are you okay?” 

Alex exhales, his elbows slipping to the vanity, until he’s halfway curled over the table. “I haven’t seen him in over a year,” he says. “I don’t know why he showed up.” 

Liz reaches out, carefully, and puts a hand high on his arm. The look on her face makes Michael think that whatever the issue between Alex and his family is, he doesn’t have to explain it to her. They’ve been friends for a while, clearly, and he wonders if Liz knows what happened.

Sensing that he could use the space, Michael is about to slip silently out of the door when Alex speaks up again. “Guerin,” he says, “Thank you.”

Michael pauses with his hand on the doorknob. “I should’ve recognized him sooner. I’m sorry.” He hesitates, before adding, “Sorry he’s an asshole, too.” 

Alex meets Guerin’s eyes in the mirror. “I appreciate that,” he says.

“Maybe next time, I can taze him for you,” Michael offers, and Alex even cracks a smile. “I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” Alex says again, quietly. Michael sees Liz squeezes his shoulder, before he’s closing the door on the two of them again. 

  
\---

Later, Michael tracks Max down. He’s off his official shift, but Max apparently isn’t, given the computer in front of him, the phone pressed between his ear and shoulder. Charlie Manes’s appearance tonight apparently doesn’t bode well for the jobs of the venue security team, given Max’s angry tone. He barely glances over to Michael when he comes in, and Michael takes a seat while he waits.

When Max finally hangs up, Michael ventures, “Can I ask you something?” 

“Depends,” Max says, looking over his laptop. “Will I need to threaten your job too?” 

“I don’t need to know everything about the family situation,” Michael says, treading carefully, “Or anything more than you’d let me know. But is there something I should know about?” 

After a beat, Max looks around, even though it’s only the two of them in here. “You gotta keep this between us,” he says slowly, as if he’s weighing something in his mind. “All right?”

“Okay.” 

“Alex is trying to fight parts of his contract, especially rights to his masters and royalties,” Max says. “Especially the royalties, with the next album coming up. The record’s not happy with him, but they usually aren’t. I think it’s putting him under a lot of stress, what with all the lawyers and meetings that he’s been going through.”

Michael frowns. “How do his brothers figure into that?”

“I know his brothers make money off of him,” Max explains. “Alex has had them as part of his contracts for years, Flint and Charlie especially. Since before I worked for him, they get a pretty hefty amount of what he makes.” 

  
“I thought he was estranged from them,” Michael says, more than a little lost. “Why would he pay them?” 

“I don’t know,” Max says, “Honestly. The family’s complicated, sure, but there’s a lot there that I don’t know about.”

“Okay,” Michael repeats, processing, “And Charlie showing up - what, he’s making sure he gets his fair share?”

“Maybe Alex said something to him,” Max says. “I know he’s been in contact with Flint. Alex doesn’t tell me everything though.” He lets his hands fall back to the tabletop. “Now, I get to ask. Why are you so interested?” 

“Easy,” Michael says, raising his own hands. “Believe me, I’m only asking because now I can see why Alex would want him to be far, far away. Dude was probably a nightmare to grow up with.” 

“Alex has been different,” Max says, “Since you started working for him. Plus, you two haven’t killed each other.” 

  
“Oh, I’m sure it’s because he knows that means he has to spend less time with you.” Michael dodges the pen that Max tries to throw at him. “Wow, good thing your job doesn’t require reflexes!” 

“I’m trying to say something nice here!”

“Just tell me - did you or did you not get Liz’s number?” Michael has to ask, and Max attempts to throw another pen at his head. 

  


\---

The next morning, Alex appears subdued, with none of the pre-show, nearly jittery energy present when Michael checks on him. He has another show tonight, but Michael finds that by noon, he’s still by himself in his hotel room, only raising his voice to let Michael know it’s okay to come in. 

Honestly, he had half expected to find that Alex had made off in the night, and so Michael had gotten up a good hour earlier to check on him before anyone else would be around. Alex is sitting at the base of his bed, looking all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world when he comes in. 

“Hey,” Michael says, “Do you want me to tell the prep team that you need more time?” He’s not sure if they would even listen to him, but he figures it’s worth the effort, given how distant the expression on Alex’s face is. 

“It’s fine.” Alex scrubs a hand over his face leaves them there. “I’ll be ready by then.”

“Can I get you something from room service? Coffee? Some semi-legal substances - “ 

“Honestly, Guerin, you can quit nagging,” Alex says sharply, then sighs. “Sorry.”

“No problem.”

“I told Liz to go, that I was fine,” Alex says, hesitating before continuing, “But I’m regretting being alone right now.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael says, and he crosses the room to sit on one of the couches. “You want mindless chatter? I can come up with something.”

Alex’s mouth curls up through his fingers. “Why am I not surprised?” 

“Prepare to be amazed, then,” Michael says, “Did you know about gecko feet?” 

Alex doesn’t move his head, but his fingers push a little more into his hair. “What’s that?” 

“Geckos. Their feet can stick to basically anything, yeah? And it’s because of the structure. They’ve got these little hair things that mean that the Van der Waals forces - “

“The what?”

“Hush, I’m telling you now. It’s about the distance between the atoms, and those forces go between the hairs and the surfaces they go on. But then again, it might be more to do with the electrostatic interaction - “

“Okay, never mind,” Alex says, letting go of his hair, but he looks at least a little amused by him. “Were you watching National Geographic last night?” 

“Hey, you don’t get to critique my fun fact of the day,” Michael drawls, crossing his arms. “You’re not enthralled by the mysteries of the Gekkonidae?” 

“You should go on Jeopardy,” Alex tells him. “Quit this job, make some real money.” 

  
“Only because I know Alex Trebek would appreciate my charms more.” Michael gets up, goes over peer out the window. “Can I ask you something?

He can sense Alex’s wariness peak at the question. “Maybe. What’s the question?” 

Michael turns back to face him. “If you didn’t make it,” he says, “Like, your music career never took off - what would you have done with your life instead?” 

Alex blinks, his face momentarily smooth and free of worry lines. “I don’t know,” he says, after a moment. “Maybe in the military.”

That, he didn’t expect. “What, really?” 

“Two of my brothers are enlisted,” Alex says, and while Michael had intended for it to be a light-hearted question to pull him out of this funk, now, he sees that it’s casting more shadows across Alex’s expression. “I can’t say I like to think about it, but if I never left home when I did, I don’t know if I ever would have.”

_Congratulations, Michael Guerin, you’ve just managed to take this conversation to a much darker place than it started_ , he thinks to himself. But then Alex seems to stir out of his thoughts, and he asks, “What about you? What would you be doing?” 

“Stripper,” Michael answers promptly, and Alex’s face goes slack again before he laughs. He should laugh more like that, Michael catches himself thinking.

“Right. Guerin, I don’t mean to destroy your dreams, but I think you need charisma and some other kind of talent to do that.”

“Hey, I would be amazing at it,” Michael starts in defense, and the ensuing conversation lasts until someone from the makeup team knocks at Alex’s door. 

\---

The show goes on. Alex gets on stage, and it’s as if every anxiety or dark mood evaporates as soon as the stage lights hits him. He brings someone from the pit in front of the stage up to sing one of his hit songs with him, and the crowd goes crazy for it. During the encore, Alex is grinning and looking as though he’s having the time of his life to be up on stage that night. 

Michael thinks he might be the best performer in the world - in every sense of the word. 

  
\---

The next morning, they’re on the private jet heading to the next city. Michael elects to take a seat nearby Alex like he usually does, only this time, Alex says, “Want to join me?”He obliges after a moment, sliding into one of the leather seats across from him. Usually, Alex has some meetings with someone who’s also on board, but this time, he’s by himself. 

  
Alex has a notebook out in front of him, which he closes as Michael gets settled. “I don’t really feel like talking about merch numbers for the next three hours,” Alex says after a moment. 

“Well, there go my notes,” Michael quips. 

Alex and Liz had gone out after the show, and the last time Michael had seen both of them, they were attempting to drink their body weight in tequila in the hotel suite that he had corralled them back to. Alex is wearing a large hoodie that might be a universal hangover sign, but the sunglasses have been off since he boarded, and he doesn’t look too bad. 

About an hour in, Michael’s fidgeting, mostly because of the way the plane shudders every once in a while. It’s just a little turbulence, the pilot had assured them not ten minutes ago, but it’s of little comfort. 

“You don’t like planes?” Alex asks. He hadn’t realized that he was watching him. He looks unaffected by it. 

“They’re not my favorite,” Michael says, giving a shrug. “Not really enough to be a fear.” Well, they might be, but he’s not about to admit that. 

Alex, mercifully, just takes another sip of his drink. “I spend too much time on planes,” he mutters into the glass. He’s staring out the window, like they can see anything other than clouds out there. “If I never had to get on another plane again, I’d be happy.”

“Well, I’ve never flown on one like this,” Michael says, in an attempt to lighten him up. The plane jumps a little, again, and he carefully puts his hands down on the leather cushions to either side of his legs. “Pretty nice setup, if you can ignore the CO2 emissions.” 

“Maybe I should just switch to commercial. Someone reclines their seat too far in front of me, I could sic you on them, right?”

“You’d probably buy out the entire cabin just so that no one tries to steal your luggage or sweat while you sleep,” Michael throws back. “And I quite like this life of luxury, and intend to exploit this part of my job —at least until the guillotine gets you, but that’s out of my control.” 

Alex actually laughs at that, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

The flight attendant brings them both coffee, which he accepts, and he gulps it down much too quickly. He’s running his teeth lightly over his burned tongue before Alex speaks up again. “You know, I don’t get you.”

“Yeah? What’s not to get?” “When he told me about hiring you, Max told me that you’re the smartest person he knows,” Alex says, and Michael blinks. “I guess I still don’t get why you’re here.”

“You really underestimate the brain cells it takes to find you each time you run off,” Michael says, takes another sweltering sip of coffee. “You, Manes, are a slippery eel. I’m just trying my best, and hey, I get my cardio in sometimes, too.” 

“You’re quick,” Alex says, unrelenting, “Too smart for this job. So why this?”

“Well, I trade my time and labor for monetary compensation in this modern capitalist economy - “

“I mean, what do you really want out of your life?” Alex probes, still undeterred by him, frowning. “And don’t say stripper. I’m serious - what would it be?” 

  
“Most of the time, a cold beer and a long nap,” Michael says, which isn’t not honest. “I’m really not complicated, I don’t know what to say. I did do Max’s homework in high school for him, though, so to him, I probably was the boy genius.” 

Alex makes some noise like a laugh, only he’s still watching Michael too carefully. “I’ll figure you out,” he says, and Michael’s not even sure if he means to say it out loud with the way he turns to look out the window as he says it. “Even if you’re a mystery, Guerin.” 

Michael takes the chance to get up and get another drink. By the time he comes back, though, Alex’s eyes have fully closed, and he’s slumped a little against the window. 

Michael lets him sleep. 

  
\---

  
He doesn’t let himself think about it, much, but once upon a time, Michael wanted to go into space. 

Even back in foster care, he had pilfered away magazines, ripping out pages to hide in his backpack of astronauts - photos of the stars, the shuttles, the NASA logo. He’d dreamed about being the first man on Mars. The day when he would leave this planet, jetting up into the atmosphere until it was just him and the solar system — with no limits to where he could go, no one telling him what he couldn’t do. 

Then he found how much it actually takes to be an astronaut. You need a whole lot more education than he had the attention for, to start, plus a whole lot more respect for the system to get you there. That means not getting kicked out of school twice (the first time, for taking Kenny Fairfield’s chemistry exam for him; the second, for fighting some asshole who didn’t take no, from a girl in Michael’s English class, as an answer). That it meant college and beyond, and he knows that’s not for him. 

He doesn’t let himself think about it. Not then, not now. 

Not until Alex had looked at him like he could be someone, in that terrifying way that Michael’s not sure he’s able to consider someone ever looking at him like that. 

It’s probably lonely in space, after all. 

\---

  
After they land, Alex gets a phone that brightens his mood even more. Michael just raises his eyebrow when Alex hangs up, and just beams, before strolling off onto the tarmac to the waiting limo. 

“Her schedule worked out after all,” Alex says to him, once they’re in the car. Michael raises his eyebrows, and he continues, “We met at the Grammys just a year ago, but she’s become a really good friend. We’re going to be able to record one of my songs together this afternoon, and I just knew she’d be perfect for a feature on this one track - ” 

Michael lets Alex talk on about this song that he’s so enthusiastic about, understanding very little but knowing enough to make impressed sounds and nod every once in a while. Maybe he should listen to some of his music, at this rate, just for the fact that Alex seems so genuinely excited at this opportunity, it makes him feel a little bad for not entirely understanding everything that he’s saying. 

When they arrive at the recording studio, thankfully, there are not many people lingering outside waiting to catch a glimpse of him.

Michael escorts Alex into the building with little fanfare, then up to the actual studio. There are more than a few security people at each of the entrances, which he supposes comes from the fact that there are now two big-time artists in the building. Alex actually rolls back and forth on the balls of his feet for the ride up, looking as though Christmas had come early. 

Stepping out from the elevator, Alex’s face breaks out in a grin right away. “Maria,” he says, looking right at a woman who’s leaning next to the entrance to the recording room, “Thank you so much for coming over here.”

“I’m just glad that we were able to find the time,” the woman says in turn, coming forward. And for the first time, Michael recognizes someone that Alex hangs out with. 

It’s Maria DeLuca, Michael’s brain supplies the name for him, because she’s really, really famous, and also incredibly beautiful, in the kind of way that makes his eyes hurt a little like he’s staring at the sun. Like Alex, she's wearing the kind of outrageous clothing that just screams that she's the eccentric musician kind of wealthy, and like Alex, she pulls it off unfairly well. He has to make himself focus on the burly security officer across from him, who’s got his arms crossed in front of him, complete with a thousand-yard stare, and who’s evidently unaffected by this entire interaction. 

The singer - Maria DeLuca - kisses both of Alex’s cheeks, asks, “Did you just fly in?"

  
“I came right from the airport,” Alex says, stepping back. “How is your mom?” 

Maria’s smile fades just a little. “She’s been better. I’m hoping to see a specialist while we’re here, actually. I’ll tell her you said hello.” 

“I’m sorry,” Alex says honestly, “I hope that you find some help.”

“Me too,” Maria says, and she clasps his elbow for a moment before letting it go. “Now, while I’d love to catch up, I might have to save that for drinks later - you’re staying at the Hilton again, right?” 

Alex nods. “I have a couple of ideas for my next album, and I have this song,” he starts, “I think you’d be great for this verse — “

They head into the studio deep in conversation, with one of the record producers hurrying in behind them with a clipboard. The door closes, muting their voices. 

Michael turns to the security guard. “Musicians, huh,” he says, and the man grunts in response. “You’re not a talker, are you?”The man levels an unimpressed look at him. 

“Guess not,” Michael says. “Cool.” 

  
\---

The two artists are in the recording studio for the next few hours, only emerging to grab some food and water from Maria’s personal assistant, before they’re disappearing into the studio again. Michael gets to listen to a bit of them singing together as they record the track, and he’s got to admit, it sounds really good.

When Alex and Maria eventually emerge, they make plans to meet up later at the hotel. “Remind me to send you the name of that writer,” Maria says. “I think she could help out with that third track, but I think you’re being a little too critical about it.” 

“I’m still stuck on the lyrics,” Alex admits, “But I appreciate it, sometimes I feel like it’s all trapped in my head - “ 

  
As they talk, Michael pulls out his phone to text the driver to let them know they’d be departing soon. When he lifts his head up again, he meets Alex’s eyes already on him. “Ready when you are,” he says. 

“Thanks,” Alex says to him, and now Maria turns her gaze on him, too. Michael fights the urge to rub the back of his neck, now, as she looks him up and down. 

“Alex,” Maria says, a slow but pleased smile growing on her face, “This isn’t your new assistant, is he?” 

  
“He’s not my assistant,” Alex says, then quickly, “He’s my bodyguard - Michael Guerin. Remember Max? He’s his brother.” 

“I do. It’s nice to meet you,” Maria says to Michael, who dips his head in return. She looks back to Alex with an amused expression, for reasons that Michael can’t parse at the moment. “Ten o’clock?”

“Sounds great,” Alex says, and he presses another kiss to her cheek before going back to the elevator. Michael follows him in, as Maria wiggles her fingers to both of them. 

  
  
He waits until the doors are closed before he says, “You didn’t tell me you knew Maria DeLuca.”

Alex looks over, looking faintly surprised. “You know her?”

“Uh, yeah,” Michael says. “She’s like, famous.” 

  
“Guerin,” Alex says dryly, “Has it occurred to you that I’m quite famous, actually?”

“No shit,” Michael says.

“And that you meet a number of people who are indeed famous on a regular basis?”

  
“Well, yeah, but not like, DeLuca-famous,” Michael says, then adds, “No offense.”

“None taken, I think.” The elevator continues its slow descent, and after a moment, Alex says, almost haltingly, “If you wanted to talk to her, sometime, I could give her your number.”

“What?” Michael says, caught off guard. Alex is facing forward, and he can’t quite read his expression from the side. “What do you mean?” 

Alex shrugs. “You seemed quite taken with her.” If he were anyone else, Michael would swear that there’s nearly jealousy coloring his tone, but it’s Alex he’s talking to, and that would make no sense. “If you want, I’m seeing her tonight.” 

“I don’t know what we’d talk about,” Michael says, still thrown. “I mean, thanks for the offer, I guess?” 

“All right,” Alex just says, as the doors open again, and they’re off. 

  
\---

  
Michael has the next weekend while they’re in Montreal off, and it turns into a long weekend after Alex finds out that the deadline for some music video production budget has been brought up, coinciding with the next meeting with his producers.

“I’m going to be locked into unavoidable meetings for the next forty-eight hours,” Alex tells him on Friday, while they’re in the elevator back up to the suites. “Rest assured, I will be excruciatingly tortured, and very, very safe.”

“If you’re sure,” Michael starts, dubiously, and Alex lets his shoulder bump into his as they step out onto the floor. 

“Guerin,” Alex calls, and Michael turns to face him from across the hall. “Have a good time, all right?”Michael salutes him, and Alex rolls his eyes before they close their doors. 

  
\---

He does some tourist-y walking around for the first day, buys tacky gift keychains for Max and Isobel, takes some photos on his phone just because it feels like what he should be doing. Max is too busy to come out with him or anything, and Isobel only gets there on Monday. So Michael then spends Sunday in his hotel room, catching up on sleep and movies, and generally lazing about (and decidedly not wondering what Alex is doing at the moment). 

By the time Monday rolls around, it feels weird that he hasn’t seen Alex in such a while. He’s supposed to meet Isobel, later, but Michael finds himself heading over to the suite instead. 

There’s a light on under the door, and he hesitates, before knocking. He hears a muffled, “Come in,” and he lets himself in. 

In the room, Alex is toying with what appears to be a new piercing in his ear. He’s got a bottle of wine open plus a glass on the table beside him, a guitar in his lap. He looks up at Michael’s entrance.

  
“You’re supposed to be on vacation.” Alex accuses, taking a long gulp of wine. He sets down the glass. “Fuck - it’s not Tuesday, is it?” 

“Nah, Monday. You do look very rock n roll,” Michael says instead because he can’t exactly say something like _I missed you_ now, can he? 

“Was it a nice break from staring at the back of my head?”

“I’m just devastated that I missed the Claire’s trip, though,” Michael says, jerking his chin at the piercing. 

Alex snorts, lets his hand fall. “I got my nose pierced in one in high school,” he says. “Liz dared me, and I knew it would piss my dad off.” There are piles of paper in front of him, scribbled lyrics and notes that seem very much in line with the tortured musical artist vibe he’s going for right now. “It worked.” 

Michael sits on the couch opposite of his, along the very edge. Alex reaches forward, scrawling something on the margin of one of the sheets, before Michael dares to say, “You don’t talk about your dad much.”

Alex’s pen pauses for the briefest moment before he resumes writing. “He died a while ago. We were never close. You might have noticed, I’m not really close to any of my family.”

  
“Yeah, picked up on that,” Michael says without thinking. “Pretty shitty.” 

There’s a start of a smile on Alex’s face at that, though. “Yeah,” Alex agrees, before he leans back again. “Do you mind?”

It takes Michael a moment to realize that he’s talking about the guitar. “Uh, no. Do you want me to clear out?”

“Stay,” Alex says, picking up his guitar. He clears his throat, says, “I mean, if you want. I do draw the line at making my bodyguards listen to my music more than they have to.”

“Funny,” Michael says, and he leans back into the cushions. “Are you gonna do a Wonderwall cover, or - ?”

“Guerin, the day I play Wonderwall is the day that you become the musician,” Alex tells him, putting the guitar in his lap. “I have this melody I’m trying to write for - “ and he strums, once, twice, before writing something down. 

Michael listens to him play. For all the polished songs that he’s heard at this point, both in the studio and live at the concerts, there’s something also nice about this: listening to Alex strum a few chords, mutter something under his breath, write, repeat. The scratch of his pen on the paper, the twang of the strings when his fingers slip for a moment, the humming under his breath. 

The sigh that escapes from between Alex’s teeth, the noise when he chews on the back of the pen. The tap of his foot against the carpet, or the way that he sings a few words before starting again, the sound of his jeans shifting a little against the material of the couch - 

Abruptly, Michael realizes he’s staring again. Only this time, Alex is looking right back at him, his fingers still resting on the frets. 

He lets the sound from the guitar fade into nothing. Somewhere in his mind, Michael’s trying to come up with something to say, as Alex gazes steadily back at him.

“Do you play?” Alex says suddenly, and Michael blinks.

“The guitar?”

“Or the piano, the violin. Something,” Alex says. That small smile is back again, though, “Something about you strikes me as a guitar player though.”

“Not since high school,” Michael admits. “And nowhere near as good as you.”

“It’s not about being good,” Alex tells him, “It’s about the practice. I’m actually pretty awful at playing, all considering, but I make up for it by writing and singing. Do you want to?”

He holds the guitar out to Michael. Michael hesitates for a long second, before rising to take it from him. Alex’s fingers brush over his as he passes it over. 

“This isn’t, like, a priceless antique, is it?” Michael asks. It’s not the one that Alex usually plays on stage, but there’s something about it that makes him feel the need to ask. It’s painted a dark, chipped red, with some scrawled pattern on the far end that makes its way around to the side just below the neck. “A gift from Lenny Kravitz? Your beloved Stevie Nicks?”

“It’s only precious to me,” Alex says, a bit wryly. “I’ve had it for a long time. What can you play?”He hadn’t touched a guitar in years. The muscle memory comes back, slowly, and then more surely - 

Michael adjusts his grip, and he plays the first song that comes to mind. He closes his eyes mid-way through, trying to remember how it goes.

He used to love playing. He and Max and Isobel would go out into the desert, sleep under the stars, and he’d play them little bits of songs that he’d learn with the guitar that Max brought with him. It doesn’t matter if he can’t remember all the chords now. If he stumbles a bit with the progressions - it brings him back to those nights, how it felt to be surrounded by the people he loved in the world. 

He opens them again. Alex is leaning forward, elbows on his knees, and his eyes are intent on Michael. 

This time, Michael doesn’t search for something to say. He’s not sure what he can say. He’s forgotten the kind of calm that playing brings to him, the sort of quiet within his head that makes everything around him feel so much brighter. 

Even looking at Alex, now, he doesn’t feel like he usually does, unsettled or caught off guard. Alex is looking at him like he feels it too, that between them, something has shifted into place - something heavy, settled and definitive. 

_Oh._

Something like nervousness twists in his stomach, only it’s not nervousness, is it? “Well, I was never that good,” Michael says, very carefully putting the guitar down on top of the papers between them. 

“Maybe you should’ve been the musician,” Alex says, his eyes not leaving Michael’s. Michael swallows, wondering how much he saw on his face. “That was beautiful.” 

“It’s nothing,” Michael says, quickly, but Alex shakes his head.

“It was definitely something,” he says quietly, and before Michael can react, Alex is getting up abruptly, twisting to face away from him. “Do you want a drink?” 

Michael glances at the clock on the far wall. “Er - “

“You are technically off the clock,” Alex points out, bringing with him the bottle and a clean glass. “Rock star hours apply. Do you like red wine?”

He’s not wrong. Michael accepts the glass, and Alex pours into it. He takes a sip to disguise the way that he thinks his hands might be shaking a little, still. He's usually more of a beer drinker, but it's good, smooth and strong. 

Alex settles back in the cushion, and it’s as if the moment before didn’t exist. “This album is taking everything out of me,” he says after a long moment. “I’ve never been so nervous about putting it out - it’s the first one that I’ve written entirely on my own.”

“If you can write how you perform,” Michael says, “It’s going to be good. You - listen, I don’t really know music, all right?” That makes Alex look over to him, and there’s something unreadable in his eyes, far from cool. "But I know that your stuff comes from you. It sounds right, coming from you, and when you play - it's like you're letting people in a little bit, to see the world through your eyes for a change." 

“Thank you, Michael,” Alex says, quietly, before he finishes his glass off. Michael watches as he picks the guitar back up again, and he drinks, too. 

\---

Michael’s woken up by the sound of light snoring. 

  
He hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep until he forces his eyes open. The sky outside the window of the hotel room had gone hazy and grey with the late afternoon, and his head’s still swimming a little from the wine. They’d polished off the bottle, and then another the last he remembers, because Alex drinks like a fish when he’s writing, and Michael didn’t know what else to do to distract himself. 

Looking across from him, he sees Alex on the couch still. Alex appears to be dead asleep, his brow furrowed, arms still at his sides, with the guitar beside him like he’d just set it down. Michael watches the rise and fall of his chest for a moment, before he rises, snagging a blanket from the side of the couch. 

He drapes the blanket over Alex. Before he fully recognizes the gesture, smooths a piece of hair off his cheek, tucks it behind his ear with a feather-light touch so he doesn’t wake up, ever so carefully as not to catch the brand-new stud. The line in Alex’s brow relaxes, and he stills. 

Michael watches Alex’s face, but his eyes don’t open. He should take his hand away, only Alex’s face is smooth and warm against his touch, and he’s struck by how easy it is, to reach out for him. 

It wouldn’t have been so bad if only Alex hadn’t turned into the touch so that his cheekbone grazes the back of Michael’s fingers. He lets out a breath, blissfully unaware of Michael’s heart swooping down low within his ribs. Michael can feel the hot air of his breath against his wrist, now, as he sees Alex lick his lips in his sleep. 

Ever so carefully, Michael pulls his hand back. Alex’s brow remains furrowed, but his eyes don’t open. 

_Fuck._

He takes a silent step back, then another, until he’s at the door. Once there’s a wall in between them, Michael lets himself breathe again. 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._

  
\---

  
After he attempts to drown himself in a long, long shower, Michael heads out to meet his sister. 

They go to a hole-in-the-wall cafe that Isobel’s been to before, open this late and home to many drunk strangers hanging around the glass cases in the front. In a table pushed into a back corner, he lets her rant about some new client, then some of the people at the record label who are managers for Alex’s brand, and then finally, about her own recent travels. 

“And what’s more,” Isobel says, punctuating her sentence with a glossy, silver nail, “I have not been in my own bed for six weeks. I mean, come on! I miss my shower!”

“Someone back home waiting for you then, Iz?” Michael says around a bite of his sandwich. It’s good, some kind of smoked meat and mustard that’s not too fussy, as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The wine from earlier had left him with a lingering headache, and he’s hoping that food will help stave it off. 

“Well, yes,” Iz says rather tartly. “As a matter of fact, I do.” 

His head pulses, or maybe that’s the headache. “What - is this the same person, you mentioned a while back?” 

“It is.” Isobel toys with the handle of her coffee, nose wrinkling a little before she adds, looking at him like he’d be daring to interrupt, “She has an even busier schedule, and I haven’t been able to see her most of that time, and that’s been… a strain.” 

Michael blinks, less surprised about the fact that his sister is dating a woman and more that she’s actually talking to him about it. He tries to imagine who would be busier than Isobel, and he is briefly haunted by the idea that Isobel has found a clone of herself, somehow, to shack up with. 

He sets down the sandwich, aware of Isobel's probing gaze. “Huh.”

“What, you don’t have anything else to say to that?”

“I mean… how did you meet?” He thinks that what he’s supposed to ask. 

That, for whatever reason, makes Isobel go pink. “We met through some mutual colleagues,” she says, vague enough that he knows there’s a story there. Then she switches the conversation just as quickly. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“Did you miss when I signed up to a full-time bodyguard?”

“Like you would let work stop you from,” and Isobel makes a kind of gesture that should definitely get them thrown out of his fine establishment, and one that makes Michael equal parts impressed and horrified.

“Oh my god,” Michael says, “How about I start working for free if you just never bring up - “

“Is it Alex?” Isobel asks, and Michael’s stunned brain goes blank for a long, long moment before she continues, “If your schedule with him is too busy for you to actually have a life, we can figure it out - “ 

“No, no, it’s fine,” Michael says in a hurry, to cover up that moment. “You know, he’s actually pretty cool to hang out with.”“I knew you’d like him,” Isobel says with relish. “You two are working really well together, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, it’s been working out,” Michael says, mostly to his sandwich. He can feel Iz’s eyes burning a hole through him, and he forces himself to swallow. He thinks about Alex moving his head, pressing his cheek against his hand. He clears his throat. “It’s been good. He’s really… not like anyone else I’ve ever known.”

In hindsight, he should’ve just made some joke about Alex being a spoiled millionaire or something, or gone back to get details out of Iz about her mysterious girlfriend. Because he doesn’t have the time to say anything else in the long pause that follows, when Isobel suddenly makes a noise that confirms his worst suspicions - that is, she truly can read him like a book.

“Michael,” Isobel says, and he decidedly does not meet her eye. “If I didn’t know better… You look like you’re - “

  
“What? Don’t read into anything, I was just saying - “ 

It’s too late. “- you _do_ ,” Isobel hisses, moving in close as someone might overhear. “You and Alex - did you _seriously_ \- “ 

  
“It’s not what you think,” Michael bites back, abandoning any attempt at deflection prematurely, “It’s - shit, okay, it’s just this one-sided thing, and I just have to get over it - “

If looks could kill, he’d be a large burn mark in his chair right about now. “Do not lie to me, if something is happening between you and him, I need to know. He’s - he didn’t do something to make you uncomfortable, did he?"

“No! It’s not like that - nothing is happening! Nothing ever happened,” Michael tells her, sinking low in his chair as if he can disappear through the tiled floor. “Can you just drop it?”

Isobel must try to sound softer, but it works very little. “Michael, if you’re in some kind of situation - “ 

“What part of one-sided do you not get?” Michael snaps. “It’s all me, Iz, nothing to do with Alex. I’ve got a dumb,” and he swallows before he’s able to say it, “ _Crush,_ I dunno, and it’s probably because I’m spending so much time with him, and he, he’s - “ 

He struggles with the words for long enough that Isobel lets out a long exhale from her nose, moving back as she does so.

“It’s not affecting the job or anything, I swear,” Michael says, and then because he’s apparently going for broke, “It’s like… He’s gotten under my skin. Sometimes he’s so irritating, Iz, you wouldn’t even believe, but then it’s like the easiest thing to be there, and I want to be there.” The truth of his words hits him for a moment, and he works through it by mercilessly pushing down that feeling that rises up in response. “Believe me, nothing’s going to happen. It’ll go away, or I’ll leave, all right? I’ll make up some excuse.” 

Isobel eyes him with something horrifyingly close to pity. “That doesn’t sound like a crush,” she says. "Michael - " 

“Well, that’s all it is,” Michael mumbles. “Alex will never find out.”

“Okay,” Isobel says, “I trust you.” She reaches across the table, pats his hand. “For what it’s worth, I’m - “

  
“Please,” Michael says, “Can we just never talk about it?” 

Her hand squeezes his, and she lets go. "Fine," Isobel says, "But you're buying dinner, okay?"

\---

When he gets back to the hotel, though, he can tell something’s wrong. Right as he steps off the elevator onto the floor they’re staying, there are PR people filing out of Alex’s hotel suite.

They look serious — though to be fair, Michael’s not sure they ever look relaxed — discussing something in low tones as they go by him, back to the elevator he’d just exited. But they’re followed by a few members of the security team, which is much more concerning. Michael sees Max emerge last, and he just shakes his head when Michael raises his eyebrows as if to ask. 

That kind of late-night meeting certainly doesn’t bode well for anyone, he thinks. “He’s in there,” Max says, tilting his head back, before he follows the rest of the people away. 

The door to the suite is still open. Michael goes over, knocks on the doorframe. “Alex?” 

Alex is inside, sitting on one of the couches. There are a bunch of official-looking papers on the coffee table in front of him, and he’s got a strange look about him, his knee bouncing up and down, staring off into the distance.

“You can come in,” Alex says, and he starts. “Just close the door behind you.” 

“Okay,” Michael says, and the door slides shut with a click behind him. “I was… just going to ask if everything’s all right.” 

Alex glances over, but doesn’t seem put off by the question. “There’s been a leak,” he says. “They think it was this assistant who I fired a couple months ago, for taking videos during a recording session and selling them.”

The wine glasses from earlier are all on the coffee table still. Michael takes a different seat than before, on the couch across from him, tries not to compare the Alex in front of him to the Alex just a few hours ago, all loose-limbed and peaceful. 

Alex continues, “Whoever it was, they released a bunch of information that he had on me. Phone numbers, schedules, even codes to get into the apartments I own. Max told me that they’re on it, but it’s too much of a security risk to go back home when the tour ends. It could take weeks to sort out.”

“All right,” Michael says, trying to figure out the best way to comfort someone in a situation he’s never been anywhere near experiencing. “You’re used to living in hotels by now, right? It’ll be dealt with while you wait it out, and then everything will go back to normal before you know it.” 

“Max and the rest of my security think I should go remote for a bit,” Alex says. “I need to finish this album, and I can go low-profile for a while. There’s this cabin, that my friend owns, in the middle of nowhere. He’ll let me stay for a while, at least until I don’t have to worry about someone breaking into my house.” 

He looks up at Michael, then. “I want you to be there,” Alex says, direct. “It’s not absolutely necessary, of course, and if you don’t want to - “

Like there was a choice. “Come on,” Michael interrupts, and Alex’s face goes carefully smooth. “Like I’d pass up basically a paid vacation?”

  
“Yes, well,” Alex says slowly like he’s actually surprised Michael has accepted. “You’re sure?” 

”You can’t get rid of me that easily, Manes,” Michael says breezily. “Besides, who’s going to protect you from a bear?”

“More like a mountain lion,” Alex says, after another long moment where it feels like he’s studying Michael intently. “Okay.”

Michael can’t resist, “Something on my face?” 

“You continue to surprise me,” Alex just says, those eyes never leaving his face. “We’ll go after the last concert date.”

“Great,” Michael says, “I’ll bring my hiking boots.”

In retrospect, this might be the exact opposite way of getting over a crush. But Michael is nothing but determined, and he promised Isobel. He’ll just make sure Alex remembers to eat and drink at semi-regular intervals, and being trapped together will make him get over any ridiculous feelings just that much faster. 

It’ll work. It _will_. 

\---


End file.
